Blow me a wish
by Freya's Valhalla
Summary: Itachi was many things in life, but he thinks Uncle is by far, his favorite. [Oneshot, written for Uchiha Itachi's birthday, June 9th.]


**The first Itachi-Sarada story I wrote a while ago got lots of attention, so hopefully you will enjoy this one as well. Dedicated to the most captivating Naruto character: Uchiha Itachi. May you live out the rest of your days in the afterworld in peace. And happy Bday!**

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 **君のそばにいるよ**

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" _Hey window face,_ seen _anything good lately on TV?"_

" _I thought Uchiha were supposed to be eye jutsu masters, but you're just a_ four eyes _. Guess one of you had to suck."_

" _Ha, all of them suck… oh wait, that's right, there's no_ them _, just_ you _."_

Sarada's glare was so deadly, she might as well have melted their brains with her Sharingan by accident. If she'd had one, that is. _Let them keep barking_ , she thought, _one day I'll be Hokage and they'll have to shut the Hell up_. She could have also punched them and broken quit a few bones, she was Sakura's daughter after all, she'd learned how to paralyze a man with the flick of a finger and crack giant boulders to dust before she could even prepare decent curry.

"They're just jealous," her uncle would tell her, "because you excel at whatever you devote yourself to."

Sarada huffed. "Was it like this for you too, uncle?" She wondered.

"No…", Itachi tilted his head slightly, pondering. He saw himself walking past the senior ANBU then, scarcely a child of twelve summers being bestowed the same bloodied masks as seasoned shinobi. He remembers their spite. "Sometimes," Itachi admitted.

Sarada bristled.

"Screw them," she snapped. She'd been shrugging off insults from the Academy kids since day one. Apparently being the sole Uchiha left in the whole of Konoha drew lots of unwanted attention. Especially if your father had a very handsome picture of himself plastered on the XVI Bingo Book edition. Despite it being over 15 years outdated, Sarada had still managed to get her hands on the rare edition her father had been branded in. Unluckily for her, she had not been the only one.

" _He recruited little kids to build an army of snakes for a traitor. Just what a traitor would do."_

" _I bet he also helped the "rain God" dude and his minions wreck Konoha."_

" _He almost killed the 5 Kage!"_

Some were indeed truths. Most of them, though, were plain lies. Sarada has always been fascinated by how easily truth can be molded to fit people's own perceptions of reality. There was a reason she favored her uncle Itachi such, after all.

"I can't believe you were only thirteen!" She scowls, but the sadness in her voice betrays her anger. She flops down onto her mattress, lifting the old Bingo Book over her glasses. She'd flip the pages over and over, jumping from staring at her father's face to her uncle's, tracing the lines of their features with one finger. She's sure she could paint both men on a blank canvas by now with her eyes closed.

"In older times, at thirteen I would have been considered a man," Itachi points out solemnly, standing next to Sarada's bed, scanning her book shelves for new acquisitions. She was a quick reader, devouring novel after novel as if she were looking for the answers to all there was to know. Always searching. Itachi sighed inwardly, he would have liked to do more reading and less killing, too. Maybe she would find the answers to what he hadn't. That, at least, would make him happy.

Sarada closes her eyes briefly, memories of her deceased family swirling in her head.

"That would still not make it right."

Itachi chuckles, breath so low Sarada almost misses it.

"Nothing could ever make what I did right. It was never about that."

Book still in her hands, Sarada traced tiny circles around the eyes of the man she'd never met. Uchiha Sasuke, it read atop his head.

"It was about father?"

And it rolls off her tongue half question, half certainty.

Itachi stares out the window on his left; warm spring breeze seeping through the half-opened curtains. If he strains his eyes, he thinks he can spot the open field near Nakano river where Fugaku first taught him how to breathe fire. His right hand twitches, weary at the memory of all the deaths lain at his feet. He glances back at Sarada, and she sees his eyes smiling, if nothing else. It's always been hard, making uncle smile. Was it always so?

"It was about so many things," Itachi mutters, and his voice sounds so weak, Sarada almost fears he will shrivel to rubble.

 **xxxxx**

"So these Akatsuki people," Sarada narrates, reaching up to the higher shelf of the bathroom cabinet and pulling out a pink bottle, "Were they really that powerful? I mean, I know they went fooling around with Bijuu, so."

Itachi follows her down the hallway.

"I wouldn't call it _fooling around_ …", Itachi counters, a mental image of Kisame running after the fourth jinchuuriki, chasing him as if he were a domestic cat, popping up on his head. Itachi remembers there being a lot more broken ribs and wounds to it, but he allows himself to exploit his niece's comical imagination for a split second.

"But yes, they were some of the most powerful people I have ever met."

"And were they really that evil and all? I cannot imagine you living with those people for so long if they were."

 _It was easy._ Itachi is almost tempted to say. _It was easy, because I belonged._ He'd pick living in shadow and sharing meals with criminals over understanding and affection again without thinking twice. Murdering his kin and family was hard enough, at least he'd rather be hated for it than loved.

"No, they were not that evil," he answers instead, "Just lost, and mostly broken." He thinks of Sasori, Kakuzu… "Sometimes literally."

"And _corny",_ Sarada declares, settling the tiny pink bottle on the table, pulling off its cap. She rests her left hand on her lap, and starts applying a thin coat of paint on each fingernail. "I can't believe you could seriously hope to intimidate people while wearing bright purple nail polish."

Itachi watches his niece concentrate on not smearing her fingers with the sticky liquid. He was amused to discover he actually enjoyed the triviality of mundane activities, as long as they involved Sarada. Choosing what movie to watch with Chocho, arguing over Ramen specials with Boruto, grocery shopping with Sakura… He could spend hours and hours following her around, invisible to everyone. Everyone except Sarada. The first time Itachi had dared cross the threshold of the living once again to watch over the shattered remnants of the Uchiha legacy, he had found Sarada (or rather Sarada had found him), hands gripping the red rail of the red bridge that crossed over the Nakano, joining the Uchiha compound with central Konoha.

He'd just stared in silence, confident that people could not see him, since no one had noticed his presence up till then, after days and days of roaming Konoha. But Sarada had caught his gaze, and spoken.

" _Uncle,"_ with so much conviction, eyes bleary with confusion, and more.

And Itachi had wanted to cry then too, for the first time since he'd held a sword over his father's head and sealed his fate more than two decades ago, because "uncle" might as well have been the most beautiful word he'd ever heard spoken since "brother."

"Well, Leader was very…" he hesitates, measuring the right words to describe Pain.

"Crazy?" Sarada offers, peeling her eyes off her finger nails to briefly glance up at Itachi.

"That, most certainly, too," he concedes, nodding his head in agreement.

"I don't like painting my nails," Sarada explains, brows creased, "but if I don't put this bitter stuff on, I end up biting them to the skin," she sighs, "I picked up the habit from mom. It's horrible." She spots Itachi's hands dangling under his long sleeves.

"Maybe I could paint yours pink?" She smirks.

Itachi stares down at the tips of his hands, and grimaces before looking up at Sarada.

"I think I've suffered enough, but thank you."

Sarada's shoulders shake with laughter, forgetting the brush held over her fingers. Itachi almost reaches out for paper tissue, but stops himself halfway. _I can't_ , he reminds himself. There's nothing left for him to hold in this world; his hand would slip right through the paper and down the box keeping it.

He watches Sarada take two tissues and rub off the extra lacquer now staining her skin. Would her hand feel warm? He remembers Mikoto often frowning with concern at the touch of Itachi's skin. _You're always so cold, Itachi, you sure you don't feel sick?_ She'd press a hand on his cheek and pull him closer to her. _"Born in spring,_ Mikoto sighed, _"but you might as well have been a winter child…"_

"It's okay, uncle," Sarada confesses, small smile pulling at one corner of her lips, staring at her glassy nails. "Purple is not that bad."

And to Itachi, that sounds good enough.

 **xxxxx**

"Tell me a story, uncle?" Sarada urges, drawing the sheets tight over her frame.

"What kind of story?" Itachi rests his arm over his bent knee; body gently floating only two inches above the wooden floor.

"Hmm..." She hums, scrunching up her face in thought. "One about when you were still in Konoha," she concludes. The only stories people seemed to know about Uchiha Itachi were the ones of him as a noted rogue ninja. As if his life had started the moment he'd set foot out of the village to never return. Maybe it was better this way, so that only Sarada could unravel the prequel of his journey.

Itachi closes his eyes, and this time it's his turn to lose himself in thought.

"Did I tell you about that time Shisui trashed the Hokage's office?

Sarada nods vigorously.

"Never mix alcohols," Sarada asserts.

"Good girl."

Itachi leaned closer to Sarada; he could almost touch her, if it weren't physically impossible.

"What about the time your father burnt my hair?"

Sarada grins, hand over her mouth.

"And you wore a wig and it slid off your head in combat."

Itachi held back a sigh, but Sarada just kept on muffling her laughter with her hands.

"The tale of the bald nin part one; hissing shuriken and flying wigs."

Itachi's eyebrows shot up, amused at Sarada's antiques.

"What happens in part two?" He asks, playing into the fantasy.

Sarada grins, lowering her chin; eyes sparkling.

"Oh there's plenty of time to figure that one out."

Itachi moves as if to throw a pillow at her, and Sarada ducks her head under hers, laughing, and for a second both could have believed Itachi was as alive as Sarada. The room slowly grows quiet as Sarada's giggling subsides.

"Hey, uncle…" Sarada mumbles, "does father know all your stories too?"

Itachi peeks at Sarada over his shoulder.

"Some, yes…" Itachi answers, and there's more deception than truth in it, "but not as many as you do." Itachi had sung a song so bloody, Sasuke had not had the chance to listen to any other.

"When he comes back…" Sarada rasps out, and Itachi can hear the skepticism in it, "you could tell him, like you tell me..."

Itachi sombers. He had a feeling that even if his brother were to show up, Sasuke would not even be able to sense his spirit, unlike Sarada. Itachi heard the sheets ruffle around Sarada as she pulled them up over her shoulders. She swallows hard, gaze darkening. _Why, Sasuke?_ Itachi ponders, looking at Sarada. _You could have this, and yet you still choose to follow in my steps even now._

"Hey", Itachi calls out in a whisper.

Sarada glances up at him under the lose strands of hair cascading over her face.

"You know, I think I prefer having just you as an audience."

Sarada smiles, cheeks a soft rosy pink, and Itachi smiles back, but neither dare speak further.

 **xxxxx**

"My name is Mitsuki. I've never really given much thought to what I enjoy; where I come from, there's no place for indulgence, only improvement," Mitsuki explains, golden eyes gleaming under his new teammates' stares, "as for what I don't like… well, I guess I haven't given that much thought to it either," he chokes out half a laugh, "and my sole ambition is to understand the desires of the human mind."

Konohamaru sighs, sweat dripping down his temple.

"Oookay… so, um, Boruto, want to go next?"

"Pst", Boruto puffs out, "Whatever. I'm Uzumaki Boruto – and yes, before you ask, I _am_ the Hokage's son-"

"No one was going to ask that…" Sarada mumbles as Boruto keeps on talking.

"I like playing videogames – my favorite game of all times is Super Mario Bros!" He proclaims. "And I don't like getting stuck with _useless_ homework-"

"Boruto!" Konohamoru chides, to which the blonde simply sticks out his tongue. As Konohamaru and Boruto start bickering, Mitsuki glares at them in mild surprise, and Sarada is not sure if he's just awed by their ability to come up with the lamest insults, or by the undeniable familiarity binding them. When they finally quiet down, Konohamaru's gaze falls on her.

"What about you, Sarada?"

She feels Mitsuki's eyes on her too, only unlike Konohamaru's intensity, Mitsuki's are less prying. Boruto is busy trying to remove what looks like a yakitori sauce stain from his jacket to even care to listen.

"My name is Uchiha Sarada," and she almost expects to hear gasping until she remembers all of them already knew, "I like reading, and dislike people who get in trouble just for the sake of attention," she rolls her eyes at Boruto, who does not even notice the accusation.

"One day, I will become Hokage. That's my ambition."

 _Ha!_ She hears Boruto exclaim next to her, eyes and fingers still working on his jacket. "Hokage suck. What a stupid life goal."

"Boruto!" Konohamaru barks again, this time also smacking him on the head. _Ou ou ou!_ Boruto whines, quick to get on his feet and start squabbling with Konohamaru anew.

"Why _do_ you want to become Hokage?" Itachi asks her later that evening, when Sarada is back behind the comfort of closed doors. She opens the fridge and finds a bento sitting on the bottom shelf. She takes the folded scrap of paper on top of it and reads; _I'll be home late, eat up!_

"Why not? It's as good a dream as any other," She offers, leaving her mother's note on the kitchen counter. Itachi does not quiet buy her answer.

"You can be anything you want," Itachi counters, following her to the living room, "Nowadays, you could even not be a shinobi."

Sarada's hand stops midair, chopsticks left untouched. She stares at him as if he'd just said the sky could turn green tomorrow.

"That's insane, I'm an Uchiha."

And Itachi thinks being punched in the face would hurt less than that. Things had apparently not changed that much.

"Uchiha does not have to still mean what it has meant before," he sits in front of her, or at least does his best at pretending to sit in this current form of his.

"And what _did_ it used to mean, hm?" Sarada questions, taking a bite of her karage. She almost chokes on the excessive layers of salt.

"Death. War," he tries to catch her gaze, "Cursed. Not a whole list of good things, I'm afraid."

Sarada chews at her food, silent.

"Don't let blood define you, Sarada," and despite knowing he has no right to give away such advice, he cannot help himself with her.

Sarada lays down the chopsticks, munching down the last bits of food in her mouth. Sakura should have really payed attention at the Academy cooking classes.

"It doesn't have to be that way," Sarada asserts, returning the stare, "We can be more than that."

Itachi thinks of his former clansmen, and the ones before them, and before them, a long line of men treading the Earth as if it belonged to them, or should have, if not. Always aspiring to greatness, as if greatness meant only power.

"We already were more than that," Itachi points out, head tipping forward, "We _are_ more than that," he whispers, glancing up at Sarada; so young, so vibrant, so unbroken compared to him.

Sarada swallows down the lump clenching her throat, eyes darting away from her uncle.

"Well what would you want me to do then, huh? Just lead a boring civilian life to keep my hands clean?" Sarada snaps, but even in her frustration, there's a calmness in her beyond her age.

 _I would want you to be happy_ , he thinks. He's not really sure what that even means, the world knows Itachi has not had much of that ever, but that's what normal people aspire to, right? Not death, not atonement, not vengeance, not even power. Just… happiness.

"I would want you to do whatever you want," he answers instead, and it's probably the dullest and most redundant thing he's said in a while, but also the truest. All his life has been devoted to doing what was expected of him; all his life chasing after a dream too big for him to ever grasp; always running, hiding, killing, so that at least others could have a chance at a more peaceful life.

"If you want to be Hokage, so be it, but do it for you," Itachi affirms, watching Sarada stare back up at him, "Never feel you owe ghosts."

Sarada flinches at that, because how could she _not_ be in debt to Itachi? She pushes a mouthful of rice into her mouth, eyes closed as she nibs at her food. It's dark outside, and even in silence, and shrouded by nightfall, Sarada feels comfort in Itachi's presence, aware that this was once a man who could make armies fall to the ground in the blink of an eye.

"Okay," she mumbles matter-of-factly, as if she'd just been asked to fetch a glass of water. She finds no better words, but deep down answers _I'll do it for us_.

 **xxxxx**

"I know dango are your favorite, but they don't make good birthday sweets," Sarada announces, head poking out of the kitchen before disappearing again.

Itachi stares out of the living room window, spotting a flock of children scurrying down the streets; food stalls unfolding around them. Watching Konoha thrive fills him with a sense of accomplishment, if dim, and fleeting. Sometimes, as he gazes out of Sarada's and Sakura's apartment, he still expects to catch glimpse of a red and white fan stitched on someone's shirt.

"Tadaaa~" Sarada comes in, carrying a small round cake on a platter, "How many was it?" She sits down on her knees at the main table, balancing the cake, and Itachi glances at her over his shoulder. _How many years, indeed?_

"You're getting old, uncle," and Itachi is tempted to laugh at the absurdity of it because he stopped counting a long time ago, but Sarada's voice is fierce, so why should he not hold on to the fantasy as well.

"I know," he admits, and he truly does feel like he's lived for centuries.

"It's strawberry shortcake, don't know if you like it…" she takes out a candle, "But I think it's pretty good, so I figured chances are you might like it too."

Sarada sticks the tiny candle into the cake, and Itachi walks towards her as she fidgets with the matches. He sits in front of her, cloak draped over his back.

"Your grandmother would be impressed; she used to bake our cakes herself every year, even after Sasuke kept repeatedly telling her he hated sweets," Itachi narrates, trying to keep his voice steady, "I'm pretty convinced she kept baking cakes for his birthday just so I could eat them in his stead."

Sarada chuckles, finally lighting up one of the matches.

"I'm glad mom never bakes, or else I'd be dead by now," Sarada rolls her eyes, recalling all of Sakura's cooking failures. "So here's how we're doing it", she lights up the candle, smothering the match, "make a wish now, and I'll blow out the candle for you," she stares at Itachi over the small glowing fire, "make it a good one!"

He can feel himself falling into a dejà vú; Mikoto smiling brightly at him, baby Sasuke trying to sing happy birthday along their mother, Fugaku still the terse and distant captain even at his own home, yet surprisingly at ease with his family. Only there's nothing similar now to the image he holds of the past, just a scrawny black-haired girl in a tiny room staring at him, eyes shining. _Hurry up, uncle!"_

And maybe this image is pretty great too. Itachi smiles, tipping his head forward, and Sarada takes it as a cue.

"Hooray!" She claps after blowing out the candle, matching his smile. "Now we gotta see if it comes true."

Sarada takes a knife and starts cutting the cake into small pieces. Itachi settles his back to the wall; if he strained his ears he could still hear the streets coming to life. At four years old, Itachi wished for peace. So he killed, and died, and killed, and died again, and still, won nothing. Maybe people are right, to think and talk of Itachi as they do, for in the end, he isn't sure he's done any real good in his life, despite all misguided efforts.

Sarada takes the extra cake to the fridge. _For mom, tonight!_ She explains.

Itachi watches her hurry to the kitchen, Uchiha crest ebbed on her uniform. If there were any life left in him, he's pretty sure he would crack right there and then. And he thinks maybe, just maybe, he _has_ done something right after all. Just one, brilliant, perfect thing.

Sarada walks back into the room.

"Remind me to do the dishes later, mom is going to kill me if she sees this mess…" She grimaces in foreboding, head dipped low.

Uchiha Itachi has been many things in his life, some of them, unwittingly; most though, out of duty. And when people remember him, they will speak with fear or hate or revulsion, or all, even though he's always just been a broken child too gentle for playing games of war. But Sarada will think of him as _uncle_ , and that alone, he believes, makes up for everything.

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 **Who else wishes Itachi and Sarada could've met? :)**


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